


Ill-Defined Gravitation

by jollyseasick



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Past Character Death, Telepathy, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollyseasick/pseuds/jollyseasick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 2114, a powerful new movement called V.U.L.C.A.N (Venerable Unition of Logic, Contemplation, Awareness, and Neutrality) settles their headquarters in the city of New Altair, Georgia— and Doctor Leonard McCoy is less than pleased. The primary goal of this movement is to inspire millions of peaceful, rational, educated people to work toward the betterment of society and form the basis of a single modern, worldwide, nonpartisan government. However, McCoy holds the movement in low esteem. He sees it as an “over-sized group of cold, wiser-than-thou, rich folks with an unrealistic directive.” He’s less than quiet about his views, and soon nearly every local member of V.U.L.C.A.N knows the name "Leonard McCoy" by heart. One of them, on the contrary, does not.</p><p>(Or, a human!AU where Spock doesn't have a bowl-cut; instead, he has that luscious Zachary Quinto hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it and weep for days.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_April 24th, 2114, New Altair, GA, USA._

It's not that Leonard McCoy is “old fashion,” per se. Not really. Okay, well, maybe he is. But only in the sense that he holds considerable respect for a number of outdated traditions and values. Take patient-physician romance, for example. The rules against becoming involved with a patient fizzled out and died sometime within the mid twenty-first century. Frankly, he could never understand why. The resulting relationships caused nothing but messes, in more ways than one (and he was not very fond of being the one to clean up afterward). McCoy took the Hippocratic Oath (2098 Modification) in the year 2103, at the ripe age of twenty-two. Since that day, he realized he must not understand this unprofessional desire because he has never been in such a situation. Indeed, in his eleven years as a physician, falling for a patient is one of the few burdens he has been blissfully free of. Not to say he's never entertained a fantasy or two, of course- he’s had his fair share of attractive folks come and go (and stay, and linger, and occasionally invite him over for coffee, cookies, and “other things”). However, he has never had a patient he was so drawn to that he felt compelled to break his own moral code.

Until today. Today, it seems like the world is testing him. The test is decidedly unfair, and impassable, and annoying.

It’s also hotter than a four-ton stick of dynamite.

 

 

_**~~35.23 minutes earlier~~** _

He was late. Again. He wasn't sure who was out to get him, but somebody definitely was, seeing as all of his appointments have been running somewhere from ten to twenty minutes over today. As he made his way down the hallway at a half-jog, he gave thanks to no one in particular for the never ending patience of Christine Chapel. Turning the corner, he caught a bit of the conversation occurring between the nurse and his upcoming patient.

And hell if that wasn't the most alluring voice he’s ever heard.

He stopped outside the door, briefly, to catch his breath and check the name on his clipboard for the sake of preparedness.

“Spock Ishmael?” McCoy inquired cheerfully as he entered, by way of announcing his presence.

“Indeed. Pleased to meet you, Doctor.”

Fantastic. The man's allure didn't cease with his voice- the patient before him was all dark hair and substantial eyebrows, lean frame and toned muscle, deep eyes and full lips, tousled hair and strong jawline, pale skin and five-o’clock shadow, defined features and graceful, near-Elvish ears. It's as if The Powers That Be had reached into his very consciousness, collected data from every sex dream he’s had since puberty, had their finest details woven into one man, and placed that man on an exam table in his own private practice.

It's a nightmare.

“Nice to meet you as well, Mister Ishmael,” he responded, offering his gloved hand in a flimsy attempt to maintain composure. “I’m sure Nurse Chapel here has taken good care of you so far. Sorry to keep you waiting- I had a bit of mix up with a hypo and a pair of conjoined twins.”

“It’s quite alright, as I am in no hurry. Whether your ‘mix up’ was in reference to the hypo or the twins, I surely hope the situation did not end too dismally,” the man remarked, smirking.

McCoy found himself laughing, involuntarily, at a level somewhat louder than what may be deemed "acceptable."

Oh, of course. He’s witty, too.

Fuck.


	2. Part One

_April 10th, 2114, 7:50 a.m. New Altair, GA. (Two Weeks Earlier)_

New Altair, Georgia is... intriguing, to put it delicately. Intriguing, and uncomfortably humid. The mild April temperatures are a welcome change in light of the intense heat Spock Ishmael had been accustomed to in his home country. However, his lungs have long been adjusted to the unforgiving dryness of the Moroccan desert lands. Judging by the persistent rain since the day of his arrival last week, it would seem that dryness and sun decided to take respite from Georgia. This, according to the locals, is an incredibly odd occurrence for their state. Already, his mother’s Irish heritage was becoming evident over his father’s Italian, skin paling in the lack of UV rays. Not to say that he was ever especially tan, but his skin usually donned a unique golden tint.

The need to carry an umbrella each day irrationally irked Spock, inflicting an unquenchable longing to return home to Tinghir. He longed to be back in the midst of that sprawling oasis, surrounded by deep canyons and proud mountains. His eyes were parched, thirsting for those other-worldly shades of red, orange, and brown which previously engulfed him in the desert sands, the cliff faces, and the vastness of the Todgha Gorge. He longed for its ancient Moroccan architecture, representing the history and culture of years past. Tinghir was a city his father remade, and Morocco with it, bringing its people into the flourishing twenty-second century.

Tinghir, now bustling with technology, world-renowned free universities, and an advanced, peaceful political system, was his home. The people- logical and ingenious- were his kin. The modern city produces calculative minds, yet its citizens hold a special place in their hearts for tradition, meditation, and contemplation. Most of North America, unfortunately, seems to be lacking in these values entirely. Uselessly, Spock often wishes he could be sitting in sand, arranged in full-lotus position, deep in secret meditation with the Three Telepaths of Tinghir (now reduced to two following his departure).

Instead, his ill-fitting, plastic-leather dress shoes are squeaking and slipping upon young concrete. His suit is dripping, an innocent victim of the unavoidable puddles surrounding the streets. His umbrella has caught onto, precisely, eight others in the last ten minutes. Hovercars are sounding their horns, impatiently (and illegally) whirring over each other, hurrying to get to wherever they need to be. On the crowded sidewalks, pedestrians inconsiderately slam their bodies into his, inflicting residual, unwanted traces of their emotions onto his own consciousness. As a result of one unfortunate experience, Spock now actively avoids making physical contact with the citizens who look the most miserable or homicidal.

The moment his flight landed in the United States, he knew its people were not at all like the ones he grew up with; he could sense that they were rash, angry, and overflowing with harsh sarcasm. He soon discovered that they are also passionate, emotionally-driven, and prone to taking thoughtless chances which, somehow, frequently end with successful results. “Culture shock” is quite an understatement, considering how sharply North American personalities contrast with Modern Moroccan. Consequently, being in this part of the world has subtly brought out some of his own sarcastic tendencies, as well as his stubbornness- two parts of himself he thought he buried in a canyon long, long ago.

Though Spock could admit to the beauty of New Altair, and considers it to be a fine modern redefinition of urban life, it was simply not suited for his ways. Despite the the deep seduction of the illuminated crystal skyline, he knew something was “missing.” Something he needed. Each time he had this thought, he mentally slapped himself for being so vulnerable to sentimentality. Whimsically, he recalled an illogical old proverb- “Home is where the heart is.” And indeed, his metaphorical heart was not in this city, nor in this state, nor in this country. Yet here is where he is; and here, for a very long time, is where he will stay.

New Altair, previously known as Atlanta, has been open to residents for a mere two years. Ten years ago, a sickening, mysterious event know as The Atlanta Uprooting of 2104 took place, leaving nothing but a chemical-ridden cloud and a city-sized hole in the ground. Not a single living being who was present in Atlanta that day survived. Many of the surrounding suburbs were affected, though most of their fatalities were caused by the effects of chemical intoxication. Every inhabited area within a fifty mile radius was evacuated for six months, and not a single lay person stepped within a ten mile radius for eight years following. The explosion was unable to be traced to a specific location, or, to this day, any suspects. It is only known that it was caused by incomprehensible amounts of a highly explosive chemical called pentaerythritol tetranitrate (PETN), which was used to create a plastic explosive. Due to the lack of survivors, it seems this tragedy will remain a mystery indefinitely.

Rather than rebuilding Atlanta, only to stir up memories of one of history’s greatest disasters, an entirely different idea prevailed. During the two years of decontamination and cleanup, extensive plans for a new, completely modernized city were in the works. By year three, the restoration of the land began, followed by the beginning of tireless construction and engineering. Eight years after The Atlanta Uprooting, in 2112, a beacon of hope an innovation was completed, and was subsequently flocked to by millions. The name of this beacon was New Altair. “Altair” is an abbreviation of an Arabic phrase, which, in Standard, roughly translates to “The Flying Eagle.” However, Spock had drawn the conclusion that it was named after Altair, the brightest star in the Aquila constellation, and the twelfth-brightest in Earth’s night sky. It is appropriate, after all, to liken new beginnings to outstanding light.

Since the "grand-reopening," some have even taken to calling the city "Little Utopia."  It is a dream for tourists and citizens alike. Due to its modern architecture and technology, New Altair is the most “green” city in the world- not only environmentally healthy, but in some ways, environmentally beneficial due to its makeup. The vast number of activities and opportunities available is almost overwhelming. It quickly became home to both leading and grassroots businesses, research facilities, a bustling arts district, a thriving theater, and many versatile, world-renowned restaurants. At present, New Altair has the best job market in the world. The University of New Altair was quickly staffed with accomplished professors in countless fields. Thus far, it is most notable for its programs in physics, neuroscience, linguistics, engineering, music, aeronautics, its outstanding pre-med program, and its medical school. It has a unique, sensible admissions process, finding ways to measure true genius and potential instead of considering childhood accomplishments and unreliable test scores.

Spock highly approves of their admissions process, noting that it is much like the one he proposed himself at Tinghir University in his time as the head of the physics department. Every day, he finds himself wishing he did not have to devote all of his time to the V.U.L.C.A.N. (Venerable Unition of Logic, Contemplation, Awareness, and Neutrality) movement, so he could apply to be a physics professor at U of NA while it is still in its infancy. But the movement is the very reason he moved here with his father, and for the time-being, it can be his only line of work. New Altair has become incredibly influential in its politics, its ideals, its _everything_. In this vital, vulnerable decade of a maturing and advancing world, all governments and political stances are susceptible to, and in need of, change. V.U.L.C.A.N. intends to take advantage of that- and not without Spock’s unmatched ability to reason and negotiate. He knows that his strengths are more prominent and more needed in the fields of science, but Sarek Ishmael is an important world leader, and being his son does not come without a price. Even if that means taking away his freedom as a grown adult.

 

 

Spock was not due to arrive at the V.U.L.C.A.N. headquarters for another hour, but his sleep schedule was still not well-adjusted, and he found himself rising at varying times. Still feeling unwelcome in his new one-bedroom apartment, he decided to arrive early on first day of work. As he turned a corner, he eyed a coffee shop that looked almost inviting amidst the brazen steel of office buildings. An hour early, he told himself, might be overkill anyway. Anxious for a chance to get out of the downpour, he soon found himself walking through the doors of Enterprise Coffee Co. Instantly, the smell of rich, smooth coffee invaded his every sense, and it was not unwelcome. The two-story shop had the kind of charm that people write poems about. The warmth of its burnt red walls and orange decor reminded him of home, and suddenly he knew of a place to escape to. He inhaled deeply, and when he let go of the breath, it felt like he had been holding it since he arrived. He had not even realized that his feet had carried him all the way to the counter until he was sighing into the face of a light-haired barista.

“Long night?” The young man inquired, bright blue eyes so plainly full of mirth that it set Spock on edge.

“‘My’ night was, in fact, the exact same length as ‘your’ night.” Spock deadpanned, understanding the expression, but not appreciating its implications. However, the barista- Jim, according to his name tag- was not disheartened; if anything, he seemed to think Spock was playing along.

“Well, well, well, if we’re comparing lengths here, let’s cut all this talk of nighttime,” he said with a wink, smiling flirtatiously until a long, dark-haired young woman slapped him over the back of the head.

“Sorry, Uhura!” he yelled over his shoulder, though he was clearly not sorry at all. “Anyway! What can I get for you, Mister Serious?”

It’s fortunate, Spock mused, that he only drinks black coffee, because his daze prevented him from looking at the menu.

“One medium light roast, please. No room for cream.”

“One medium light roast- gotcha. That’s two dollars, and I’ll have that right up for you.”

Spock had the courtesy to nod politely, thanking the eccentric barista before he turned his back and poured the coffee. As he retrieved his drink from the other man’s- _Jim’s_ -hands, Spock involuntarily pulled away, nearly gasping; his telepathic response to him was so overwhelming that it almost burned. He could no longer feel annoyance toward the young man- not when he could sense so clearly the pain and hurt he has endured, and the brilliance that lives inside of him. Even further, though it is strangely specific for such brief contact, he felt a strong devotion in this man. Not of a romantic nature, not of a familial nature, but one of friendship- a strong attachment to another, a feeling of a life owed to that person. He looked up to see Jim eyeing him curiously, questions written all over his face, mapped in the crevices where features form. Spock retrieved his drink, avoiding touch, and hurried away. When he stopped to grab napkins, he noticed ten numbers on the paper cup, scrawled lazily in green marker. Briefly, he forgot why he stopped finding that man so annoying.

Finally, he seated himself in an oversized corner chair near a fireplace, pulling the PADD from his briefcase and reading through messages from friends back home. Upon reading message number three, Spock let out an unexpected sneeze. Then another. Then another. Then another. He elected to ignore them, and continued responding to inquiries about his travels. Twenty minutes later, he found himself racked with chills, all of his napkins crumpled and used, unwilling to move out of his big corner chair. Never in his life had the onset of sickness consumed him so rapidly. The desert, Spock decided, is preferable to rain any day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be fooled! This is not a coffee shop AU, and it is definitely Spock/McCoy-- Kirk's just being a flirty little shit. UvU Thanks so much for reading, the next chapter will be a lot longer and there will be more dialogue. I just needed to fit in some Spock background and explain this made-up city. More details about all that will develop naturally as I write, of course. I have lots of plans for this fic. Loooooooooooooooooooots. Hehehe. Let me know what you think!! And if there are errors, feel free to point them out. This is my first fic. 
> 
> Also! You may question how I've written Morocco. This is a century away, and in this fic, the world has reached the point of religious equality. No countries will actually have a set religion. Religion will have largely faded, but those who still practice will be respected and honored as anyone. Therefore, Islam will still be practiced in Morocco, but religion will not be a defining aspect of most of my 22nd century cultures.


	3. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, reboot Chapel is Scarlett Johansson. So that’s how I'll be thinking of her when I write her. Just in case you want to sorta get a feel for her persona :)

 

 

 

 

_April 24th, 2114, New Altair, GA, USA, 1:04pm._

Two weeks ago, Spock began exhibiting flu-like symptoms- and for two weeks, Spock ignored them. By his logic, if he got a sufficient amount of rest while taking good care of himself, the sickness would go away on its own. Of course, for that plan to work, he would actually need to follow through with it. Nonetheless, he _wasn’t_ getting enough rest, eating correctly, or taking decent care of himself at all. The trouble was, adjusting to a new country has proven itself to be quite a feat for a telepath. It felt something like sensory overload (but it also didn't feel like that at all). The unpleasantness of telepathic adjustment caused a lack of appetite with a large side of sleeping troubles. Three days ago, the flu symptoms appeared to be subsiding- but today, they returned with a vengeance. His hatred of any remotely medical facility motivated him to ignore his illness. It was when he couldn’t remember when his head met his desk, or when it stopped being 11:30am, that he figured it was time to admit defeat.

“Father?” Spock voiced, standing in the doorway of the CEO’s office.

The tan, sharp-featured man was sitting ramrod straight behind his desk, incredibly intent on whatever he was typing.

“Ah, yes, Spock. Enter. You have come to request to leave early so you can rest.”  It wasn’t a question.

“I-”

“Oh, save it, my son. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Letting your sickness fester for so long is highly foolish, especially after moving overseas.”

Sarek paused his typing, finally making eye contact with Spock.

“Yes, you may take the day off,” he continued. “In fact, take the rest of the week off. I was just about to inform you that the holovideo conference with President Orellana of Chile was postponed until next week. I have little else for you to do until then, and you’re of more use to us healthy next week than half-awake the next two.”

As cold and demanding as he could be, one thing was for certain- Sarek knows his son. Though he would never voice it, he was aware of how difficult it was for Spock to leave Tinghir, and he was incredibly grateful to have him here.

“Thank you, father.”

Sarek gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Do not expect this kind of impromptu break again. And you may only take your leave if you set up an appointment with a doctor instead of continuing to waste away in your own bacteria.”.

“At this point, medical attention is inevitable,” the younger man said; it might have classified as a whine, if Spock was not above such things. “It seems I have, as one might say, ‘pushed my luck.’”

And if Sarek Ishmael was a man who smiled, he would have been doing so right now. Instead, he simply said, “There is no such thing as luck- but I take your meaning, and I must agree. You may go.”

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

On the walk home, Spock could, at the very least, revel in the sunlight. The rain came to a stop a week and a half ago, and showed no signs of returning in the near future. Originally, he had planned to drop by New Altair Clinic, the city’s foremost hospital. It was only as he crossed the intersection of Deneva and Main Street that he remembered the reputable private practice on the way back to his apartment complex. To him, private practices were always preferable to the cold starkness of hospitals, usually offering a more personal approach to individual patients. He climbed the four sizable steps to reach the front doors of Dramia Health, Wellness, and Surgical Center, hoping to set up an appointment within the next week.

Unlike any medical building Spock has entered before, this one was almost… inviting. The shades of blue which encompassed the spacious waiting room were not cold; they were deep and captivating. Its floor was not covered with typical cheap carpeting, reminiscent of offices from the late twentieth century. Instead, it was graced the stunning kind of white marble one would find sprawling across a five-star hotel lobby. Something about the environment set his mind at ease, and he found himself approaching the front desk with confidence. And there he stood, for two minutes and twenty-six seconds, while the middle-aged secretary finished up her phone call.

“Sorry about that,” she said, smile full of tired exasperation. “How may I help you?”  
  
“I would like to know if you have any appointments available within the next week.”

“Well, normally, honey, we wouldn’t. But that call I just left you hanging around for? It was a cancellation-- so how does thirty minutes from now sound?” the rough-voiced woman asked.

“That,” Spock agreed, “would be more than acceptable.

“Fantastic. I’m assuming you’re new?”

He nodded.

“Well, let’s see, let’s see… looks like the cancelled appointment was wiiiith,” she hummed, scrolling down a PADD, “Ah, lucky duck! New patients usually have to schedule months in advance to get in with The Man Himself. You’re in good hands today, mister...?”  
  
“Ishmael.”  
  
“Mister Ishamel.  You’ll be with Doctor McCoy at 2:00. Just fill out these papers here,” she instructed, handing him a clipboard, “and give them back to me when you’re all done.”

“Thank you, miss...?”

“DeGrasse. And don’t mention it, hon.”

Spock made his way over to a blue-cushioned chair and began filling out his paperwork. By the time he was finished, he still had a few minutes to wait, so he spent them meandering around the busy waiting area. There were plaques on every wall, the majority of them inscribed with the name Doctor Leonard H. McCoy. Spock was becoming increasingly curious about just how skilled this physician must be when his eyes caught sight of a framed article, printed with the headline “Dramia Health, Wellness, and Surgical Center: Why the Greatest Doctor of the Generation Chose to Open a Private Practice.”

“Spock Ishmael?” a kind female voice called out, before he had the chance to read any further.

He made his way over to the door where she was standing, and she smiled brightly upon catching sight of him.

“Hello, Mister Ishmael! I’m Nurse Chapel. Follow me,” she advised, turning on her heel and briskly making her way down the hall. “I’ll run you through some routine tests, then hopefully Doctor McCoy will be with you shortly. No promises, though; poor guy’s had a hectic day.”

He followed the nurse down winding corridors, turning three corners before they reached the examination room.

Nurse Chapel was incredibly good at her job-- kind and conversational, yet efficient and stern when needed. She stayed with him for twenty minutes while he waited for the doctor, inquiring about his life without being intrusive. He wondered why she wasn’t moving onto other patients after the routine checks, and when he asked as much, she explained that she works exclusively with Doctor McCoy’s patients. Apparently, these collaborative doctor-nurse duos were the heart of the practice. She went on to say that herself and doctor McCoy prefer to get to know their patients on their first appointments. Impressed, Spock wondered how difficult it must be to uphold that system. They were deep in conversation when a dark-haired, breathless man entered the room; the immediate attraction Spock felt was difficult to quell.

“Spock Ishmael?” the man announced, rather in the same manner that Nurse Chapel had. He was nearly the same height as Spock. His captivating hazel eyes contrasted his rich skin- a light, nearly florid mix of ochre, peach, and honey. His face was expressive, strong brows raising as he spoke. His smooth, blue medical scrubs clung nicely to his lean-waisted, broad-shouldered build. Spock nearly forgot to reply.

“Indeed. Pleased to meet you, doctor,” he forced out in his regular, aloof tone.

“Nice to meet you as well, Mister Ishmael,” Doctor McCoy responded, offering a freshly gloved hand. Before Spock reciprocated the gesture, he gave himself the equivalent of a telepathic cold shower, making his best attempt to avoid picking up any residual emotions. Turning off telepathic reactions upon physical contact is a draining effort, but it seemed to work (though the gloves likely played their part, too).

“I’m sure Nurse Chapel here has taken good care of you so far. Sorry to keep you waiting- I had a bit of mix up with a hypo and a pair of conjoined twins.”

“It’s quite alright, as I am in no hurry. Whether your ‘mix up’ was in reference to the hypo or the twins,” Spock teased, involuntarily smirking, “I surely hope the situation did not end too dismally.”.

The other man laughed, loudly and without remorse, throwing his head back to reveal the glorious stretch of bare skin on his throat. Spock did his best to avert his gaze.

After the brief laughter died down, McCoy nodded to Nurse Chapel by way of dismissing her. She gave one last smile to Spock, then she was on her way.

“Hell, I’m glad I finally got a patient with a sense of humor- even if it’s a dry one. I swear, not a single patient I’ve had this week would understand a joke if it kicked them in the ass and sent them all the way to the goddamn moon.”

“That’s quite a colorful way to put it,” Spock said, amused. “I see formality is not an issue here.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a rough day,” McCoy dramatically drawled, waving a dismissive with a roll of his eyes.

“So I’ve heard.”

The doctor flashed him a white-toothed smile before flipping a stool around, straddling it backwards, and leaning over its back to face Spock directly.

“So- what brings ya' here today?”

Spock cleared his throat- which was most certainly not a nervous action. “I recently moved to this country, and I began experiencing severe flu-like symptoms one week after my arrival.  However, I had-”

“Where did you come here from?”  
  
“Morocco.”

“You lived there all your life?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Never been to the US before now?”  
  
“Indeed not.”

“Ever traveled to any other countries?”

“Italy, several times. And France on one occasion.”

“And when did you arrive in this country?”

“Three weeks ago.”

The doctor’s head snapped up from his PADD. “Alright, hold on. You mean to tell me you just flew into some foreign country- one with a _completely_ different climate and atmosphere, mind you- with your immune system vulnerable all kinds of new bacterias, pollens, you name it; and when you felt sick, you just let these ‘severe’ symptoms fester for _two weeks?!"_ he gaped, visibly riled. “Oh, and then you probably went on to eat a loads of unfamiliar foods that’ll severely throw off your intestinal flora- and that oughta _really_ make you feel like you're in tip-top shape-”

“I had assumed, doctor," Spock interrupted, growing increasingly annoyed, "that I could take sufficient care of mys-”

“No, no, you see, takin' care of yourself doesn’t mean workin' everything out on your own. Takin' care of yourself means gettin' proper help when you need it. I don’t know if that’s how they do things where you come from, but in Georgia? When you’re sick, you see a doctor.”

“I was under the impression that I was doing that right now,” Spock quipped.

The doctor didn’t even falter upon hearing the venom in the foreigner’s voice. Quite the contrary, he kept going on with his business, beginning a scan with a medical tricorder. He was obviously used to difficult patients.

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause you waited around until you didn’t have any choice! _Two weeks._ Hell. Oh and don’t even get me _started_ on all the negative effects the whiplash of culture shock can have on a person’s mental _and_ physical health.” The man had a talent for over-stressing particular words. He stopped his rant for a moment, looking at the tricorder, followed by a quick sigh of relief. “Good. Now, you’ve been susceptible to all kinds of viral infections, but according to my tricorder, it’s just your common influenza. You lucked out.”

There was that L-word again.

“You got all the hypos you needed before you came here, right?”

Spock nodded in affirmation.

“Well, thank god for small blessings. What’s not so fortunate is that, if you woulda' seen somebody sooner, you mighta' been sick for a day- maybe two. But you didn’t, so it’ll take longer for you to recover. I’m gonna give you another hypo- an antiviral- but it’s no magic wand; you still need to get plenty of bed rest and drink lotsa' fluids. If you have work or classes to attend, ya' might wanna think again. You’ll need one week of rest, minimum.”

“That is already taken care of. And doctor?” Spock hesitated, “I’m sure the hypospray will not be necessary. Once again, if I get adequate rest and-”

“Oh no, you’re not gettin' out of this one. Got a fear of hypos, Mister Spock?” McCoy grinned, looking as if he knew all too well. He walked around near the back of the exam table, out of Spock’s line of view. He could hear the man digging through several drawers.

“Not a fear. Simply a minor distaste.” The patient felt his cheeks warming, ashamed of his illogical phobia. Hypo shots were not detectable, let alone painful, and still, he couldn’t stop the way he was already clamming up.  

“Well, you don’t need to worry about this one,” Doctor McCoy said, walking back around to face him.

“And why is that?” Spock asked, head tilted with a puzzled expression.

“‘Cause I already gave it to you,” he stage-whispered, shaking the hypo in his hand with a mischievous grin. If Spock wasn’t so taken by the other man’s efficiency, he would have done more than just raise his eyebrows in annoyance.

McCoy went on as if nothing had happened.

“I’ll get you some fever-reducers as well, since you’re readin' as high as 101. Don’t worry about the cost, I’ve got some layin' here somewhere. Consider it a warm welcome to the country.” Spock could have sworn he saw him wink.

What he hadn’t noticed was that the doctor had removed his gloves.

He was not given sufficient time to put his guard back up before the back of a hand met his forehead, skin-on-skin, clearly double-checking to affirm the fever the tricorder reported.

And then the whole world went upside down.

_The room swirled, then his vision doubled, tripled, changed completely. No connection has ever been like this before; not with his family, not with the telepaths back home, not even with the strange barista two weeks ago. He wanted to double over with the sickening degree of loss that he felt, the confusion that was circling his every cell, the clarity of the pain Leonard has long endured. (Why was he calling him Leonard?)_

_Yet he also wanted to float away, wrapped up in this compassion, this care, this ingenuity; wanted to give a home to the abounding love that was locked up inside the other man, suffering in silence with nowhere to go. (Why was he so alone?) Spock wanted to throw up._

_For just a moment, he knew what it meant to need another. He shouldn’t be reacting like this-- he didn’t even know him. It must be the weakness, all those troubles he’s had with telepathic adjustment boiling over; coming to a head. Or his telepathic mind was simply mocking him, filling in those dark, lonely spaces with every aspect of the human before him. (Wait. Who was he with? He couldn’t remember beyond the angry, flashing colors.)_

_Distantly, he thought he heard his name. Closer, there might have been hands on his face- and maybe that additional contact made his situation even worse._

_He was on fire. Everything was burning. Everything had already burned. Everything felt wrong. He couldn’t breath. The oxygen was somewhere deep, buried in the bottom of his stomach, and he was trying to pull it up with severed strings._

_He had been poisoned. The hypo was poison. Nothing else would suffice as an explanation._

_(Hypo? What hypo?)_

_Logic seems to have lost its meaning. Maybe everything else has, too._

_But it was calling him…_

_Something was there…_

_“Spock!”_

_A hand on his arm._

_“Spock?”_

_A soft hissing noise._

_“Spock.”_

_He could see again._

Suddenly, sounds made sense once more.

It was like he had been drowning, and he just reached the surface, gasping for air. As he blinked the terror out of his eyes, he tried to remember where he was.

“Are you with me?” a pleasant voice asked.

Doctor McCoy. Dramia Wellness Center. Flu. Hypo. Fever. Hand.

“Y-yes,” his cracking voice replied. He took another lung-full of air, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Yes, I apologize. I was… momentarily distracted by something I had forgotten to do at work.”

“Bullshit,” the doctor spat, though there was no heat behind it. Somehow, it was empathetic. He handed Spock a glass of water and sat down in front of him again. “I had to give you another hypo, this time to calm you down. Do you have a history of panic attacks, Mister Ishmael?”

Spock froze. “Pardon?”

“Panic attacks. You just exhibited several symptoms for over a minute- the shortest ones are usually the worst. Did it seem like that long to you?”

Spock shook his head, mistified. It seemed much, much shorter. Or perhaps eons longer. It was more like he was in a black hole, and time as he had known it simply stopped existing at all.

“You were experiencing shortness of breath, your heart rate and temperature skyrocketed dangerously, and you’re sweating like a madman.” It was strange to hear his experience recited back at him so easily. Just symptoms, words, somebody's job. Was that what he sounded like most of the time? “Seemed like you couldn’t even hear me outside of your own terror. Have you dealt with anything like this before?”

A panic attack.

Combined with the intensity of his telepathic reaction, he should be grateful he had not lost consciousness altogether. There it was again; that false concept of “luck.”

“No, I cannot say I have.”

“No history of anxiety?”

He shook his head again, still unable to make eye contact.

“Does this have to do with the hypo?” the doctor ask, guiltily.

“No!” Spock affirmed, looking up to assuage the concern in those hazel eyes. “No. Certainly not. My ‘fear’ of hypos, as you call it, is not nearly that… severe.”

“Okay. Well,” McCoy started, voice soothing and kind, “sometimes the cause is simply unknown. It could be a result of bottled-up stress. I don’t know what’s going on in your personal life, but with the extreme changes you’ve been through, coupled with the poor state of your physical health? Anxiety and panic issues aren’t out of the question. If this happens again, and if you find yourself havin' any more problems with anxiety, I can refer you to a counselor.”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” Spock answered, a bit too quickly, still unsure of himself.

The other man sighed. “Your apparent self-neglect is givin' me reason to think it might be _very_ necessary. Look, I’m a psychologist myself. I don’t have much time to pursue that particular profession on its own, but… well, let's just say I know how overwhelming it can be to meet people in a new city, or a new state. But a new country? That’s gotta be a lot worse. If you’d rather stick with somebody you’ve already met, I can always find time to talk to you. Here’s my card-- if anything comes up, you give me a call anytime, alright?”

He was at once the most impertinent and compassionate man Spock had ever met. Yes, he could continue to argue with him- to stress that he was fine, and there was nothing to worry about. In actuality, he thought he might be lying to himself. So instead, what came out was a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it. Well, we’re all finished here. Chapel will have your fever reducers up at the front desk.” A pause. “Are sure you're alright?” he wondered, eyeing his patient with genuine care.

That look was enough to strangle a person.

“Quite fine. Thank you for your time, Doctor McCoy.”  
  
Spock was on his feet and out the door before McCoy had a chance to reply. Retrieving his medicine and hurrying down the front steps, he decided never to think about this this day, this appointment, or Doctor Leonard H. McCoy ever again.


	4. Part Three

_May 1st, 2114, 9:03 AM, New Altair, GA, Gedree Apartment Complex_

 

“Jim!” McCoy called out, balancing two different PADDs on his body while sprawled across his friend’s living room couch. He was scrolling through dozens of bookmarked articles, catching up on the news with the first free time he has had all month.

“ _Jim!_ C’mere!”

Still no response.

_“....JIM?”_

Silence.

He took a long, controlled inhale before grumbling, “God damn it, Jim,” under his breath. They made a deal. They made one very simple deal: McCoy, under no circumstances, was to get up from that couch until his breakfast had long since digested. He made one last attempt to grumble and groan loudly enough to illicit a response. It was, predictably, futile. Full of frustration, McCoy solemnly parted with The Most Amazing and Comfy Couch in All of Time and Space (the name McCoy had given the huge, soft, piece of black furniture on a particularly drunken New Year’s Eve; Jim still hasn’t let him live it down).

All he wanted was a cup of coffee. Looks like he would have to make it for himself. As he walked into the kitchen, he was aggravatingly reminded that Jim’s coffee pot was some evil, ancient 2010 model. Though, perhaps “model” was not the best word to describe it. It was more like a death contraption. Either way, McCoy has never been able to wrap his mind around how it functions. Jim had a strange collection of vintage appliances which were, in the eyes of most, a big waste of time. He made his way down the narrow hallway of the small apartment to Jim’s room, his internal monologue growing surlier all the way.

_“Oh, Bones! You have two days off?! Stay the night at my place!” he said._

_“I’ll make you breakfast in bed-  I’ll get you anything you want!” he said._

_“You’ve been helping me out with my advanced o-chem class! I owe you, man!” he said._

_“You’ve been working too hard,” he said._

_“You won’t need to get up from The Most Amazing and Comfy Couch in All of Time and Space all morning, Bones!” he said._

_Won’t need to get up, my ass._

He knocked on the door, immediately followed by the sound of several fragile objects shattering, and then the door swung open to reveal a wild faced James T. Kirk, donning goggles. And gloves. And _earbuds._

“Bones! You weren’t supposed to get up!” he yelled over his music, face set like an affronted puppy.

McCoy reached up to yank the earbuds out of the younger man’s ears, sticking him with a heated glare.

“ _You_ were supposed to be able to _hear_ me!” he spat back.

The only reply was a guilty smile and a shrug, his friend opening his door to reveal an indecipherable, likely illegal project. In the middle of the room, there were blinking lights and metal parts that McCoy wouldn’t even _pretend_ to know the name of. Some were in a haphazard pile, while others were connected in some semblance of order. Leave it to Jim to take on complicated engineering endeavors for fun. Carpeting the floor was an array of notes and blueprints, full of different designs for… for what? McCoy stepped inside, then crouched down and began to scan them over.

“What the hell are all these drawings and notes for?” he asked.

Suddenly Jim seemed (if McCoy didn’t know him any better) almost nervous, hurrying to pick up all the pages from the floor.

“Oh uh, you know. Just a hobby of mine. I sorta think NASA is a little bit… I don’t know. Outdated? And completely underfunded. And sometimes I just get to thinking about how things could be a bit different. So I, y’know. Come up with ideas for a sort of ‘space fleet,’” Jim chuckled, mocking himself. “It’s dumb, really. Oh and those drawings, are just… well, I also come up with more efficient designs for things like, uh food replicators. And warp technology. And I kinda draw up ship designs, and sometimes, uh,” he trailed off, coughing over his next words as if to cover them up. “build small parts of ships.”

Now the blinking metal contraption made sense. Leonard didn’t know whether to hug him or punch him. On one hand, Jim’s risky projects have always annoyed the hell out of him. On the other hand, he had to feel like a sap, welling up with pride over his best friend. Sometimes it was difficult not to reflect in awe. In 2111, when he was in Iowa for a medical conference, he pulled a bloodied repeat-offender out of a fight in some dive bar. A week later, he was dragging the same young man back to Georgia with him to meet with the future dean of a future university in a city not yet finished. He had planned to take him back to Iowa after the meeting, of course, until he realized the guy had no real home to go back to; McCoy knew what it was like to have nobody left. After that, they swiftly became the only thing the other had.

Three years later, and he’s standing in the room of a man who is flying through his degree in intelligence and information with amazing speed. Three years later, and he is surrounded by blueprints that could probably change their world and expand their universe. Three years later, and he is standing in front of a man who owes him a damn cup of coffee.

“Well, I gotta admit, kid. This is pretty impressive,” he said, trying to keep the admiration out of his voice. “But I need coffee like a horse needs hay, and I don’t understand your pre-historic appliances.”

“Shit! I forgot!” Jim exclaimed, unceremoniously dropping his papers back onto the ground. He removed his gloves and goggles and rushed into the kitchen. McCoy trailed slowly and groggily behind.

“Hey, Jim,” he started, picking up the PADD he was reading before he got up, “have you heard about this V.U.L.C.A.N. ‘movement’ relocating their headquarters here? What a load of shit. It’s just some over-sized group of cold, wiser-than-thou, rich folks coming from all around the world to invade our city with an unrealistic directive. I give it two months.”

“I don’t know, Bones,” Jim shouted from over his shoulder from the small, connected kitchen. “It might be pretty cool. I mean, their goal is essentially to help prepare us for a world-government. I’m not sure the majority of the population is intelligent enough for us to move forward in such a big way, but if these people wanna try? I say let ‘em go for it. ”

“Oh no. Don’t tell you’re gonna become one of _those_ robots. I’ve met one of their representatives before- and let me tell ya’, it’s a disaster waitin’ to happen. They lecture about peace, but they don’t understand a single thing about _human emotion!_  Look, I get that our government is all but obsolete. But if they think they’re gonna just, I don’t know, slyly _overthrow_   it? They’ve got another thing comin’,” he complained, growing more animated as hand gestures filled the empty space around him. “You know what this stands for? ‘Venerable Unition of Logic, Contemplation, Awareness, and Neutrality.’ Sounds great and all, until they explain it to you. They want logic over all other things, and they want to stay neutral in all situations that don’t offer up cold, hard facts. No matter the circumstances! Where is the _heart_ in this? They meditate, and they contemplate, and they still don’t understand our species. They’re just cold-blooded. Might as well be from another planet, if you ask me.”

Jim walked into the room (hands still devoid of coffee, since his coffee maker takes eighty years to fill a damn pot), shaking his head and plopping down onto the coffee table across from the couch.

“You sure we’re talking about the same movement, Bones?” Jim laughed. “I met one of their interns the other day, and she was telling me all about it. She was actually pretty neat.”

“I’m sure she seemed alright- _after_ she stuck you with some kind of brainwashing hypo!” McCoy half-shouted, eye circumference expanding 150%.

“Uuuuuughh _Bones_ ,  you’re so over dramatic. Really, man, why didn’t you just become an actor? I mean, this whole ‘doctor’ thing hasn’t really worked out. Do you even read science eMags? Medical journals? People hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Change the subject all you want. You’re not gonna change my mind.”

“You’re truly the poster child for open mindedness.”

“I’m about as goddamn open-minded as it gets, and you know it,” McCoy snapped back, trying (and failing) to hide the fact that he was a bit insulted. “But you know how I get these _feelings_ about stuff, and a lot of the time, I’m right. I’m not gonna claim to understand this thing completely. The world is strange right now, I know. Hell, most governments seem up for grabs at this point. Especially ours. But I don’t get how they plan on turning a philosophy into a political-- _something_. Or how they plan to do- well, whatever it is they wanna do. Work with the federal government? _Replace_ it? Then replace the rest of ‘em, too? I don’t know. I’m just saying, I’ve got a hunch. This whole thing reeks of _wrong._ ”

Jim sighed, resigned.

“I know you’re not closed-minded, Bones. But you can be pretty stubborn. I trust you, though, and I know you’re, uh, damn. What’s the word? _Intuitively_ right about a lot of stuff. Look, I’m not planning on becoming all Anti-V.U.L.C.A.N., but I’ll keep what you said in mind.”

Jim got up when the heavenly beeping sound McCoy had been waiting for rang out from the kitchen. Soon, they were both holding warm mugs of contentment and bliss. Thirty minutes of refills and and news articles passed wordlessly between the two men as they read side-by-side, behaving like the most married not-couple of all time.

“Alright, time to face the day,” Jim said with a yawn, finally breaking the silence and removing himself from the couch. “I know it sucks, Bones, but you can’t just hide from your responsibilities forever. We’re going to a movie.”

Jim fixed him with the kind of look a mother would give her son when attempting to convey the message, _Now, now, young man! You’re going to school! Don’t make me drag you!_ McCoy, on the other hand, all but beamed back. The last time he went out to a movie was… well, he wasn’t quite sure. But he knew it was during a time when Atlanta still existed. This day might be pretty good after all.

 

* * *

_12:32pm, outside of April Independent Cinema_

 

“That was the absolute worst movie I have ever seen!” Leonard said between breaths, doubling over with laughter outside the movie theater. “Plus, that ending made no sense! Cybernetic Cyclone would have  _destroyed_  Telepathic Tornado!”

The look on Jim’s face told McCoy he’d been offended.

“No way in hell! Y’know, I’ve met a telepath before-- two, in fact. _They were a telepathic stripping duo._ I met them in a bar-- went by the names Vash and Q. They were two of the most interesting- and irritating- people I’ve ever met. Damn good liars, too. But let me tell you, if they had thought being a superhero team would be funnier than being telepathic strippers? They could have defeated anyone they wanted to.”

“Well, maybe those two could have,” McCoy conceded reluctantly. “But Telepathic Tornado was too worried about messing up his damn hair to even notice when Cybernetic Cyclone lifted him up in her Whirlwind of Doom! And I don’t know, Jim, I mean, with the progress they’re making in cybernetics at that new Daystrom Institute? I bet there will be real Cybernetic Cyclones kickin’ ass before you know it.”

Jim chuckled. “Whatever you say, Bones. Just leave me out of your weird robot sex fantas- _OW!”_ He yelped, rubbing the back of hishead where he was just slapped.

“And I’ll do it again if you keep acting like a twelve year-old,” McCoy smirked triumphantly.

“Awww c’mon, you know I’ll never stop acting twelve. It’s all part of my charm,” Jim drawled, winking and sliding his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Hey! Chekov and Uhura are on the clock at Enterprise right now! You haven’t seen them in weeks. Let’s go say and hi!”

Leonard found himself smiling at the thought of that Russian infant and Uhura’s warm smile.

“Alright. Yeah, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

“Lenny!” Uhura shrieked, running around the counter and engulfing the the man in her arms and her coffee-scented sleeves.

 

McCoy received her surprise-attack with an _Umph!_ and a bright, genuine, full-bellied laugh. He adored Uhura more than he would ever be able to express, and felt a connection with her that he knew was completely irreplaceable. Several people have approached him about it, accusing him of being in love with her, but he knew he wasn’t. Maybe he was crazy for that, since she was one of the loveliest, funniest, most intelligent people on the planet, but there was no romance between them. Just one of the greatest friendships he has ever had, after Jim. Plus, he was the first to jump on board the Uhura and Scotty boat-- and it’s a boat that’s sailing on strong,.

“Hey there darlin! Thought I told you never to call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever the hell I want,” she laughed into his neck.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” he sighed, finally letting go of their tight embrace to look into her eyes. “How’s that applied linguistics doctorate goin’?”

“Ugh,” she started, “don’t even remind me. I’ve got two oral reports that need to be ready by Wednesday, and I’m totally behind on my dissertation. How’s the Doctoring business going?”

“I’d rather not talk about all that on my day off,” he said with a tone of feigned annoyance.

Uhura shot him an understanding look, then slunk back behind the counter.

“Hello, Doctor Leonard!” Chekov said enthusiastically.  “What would you like today?”   
  
“Well I _should_ just do tea, but what the hell- give me a medium raspberry cheesecake latte. And don’t hold back on the whipped cream.”

“My, my, my, Doctor,” Chekov beamed with mock-disapproval, “it would appear Jim has soiled your healthy ways. If this becomes a habit I may have to have a serious talk with him.”

“Oh, shut it, Whiz-Kid, even doctors can indulge every once in a while. How much do I owe ya’?”

“Oh no, we are _not_ going over this again,” Uhura interjected. “Chekov isn’t gonna let you pay, I’m not gonna let you pay, and Pike sure as _hell_ wouldn’t let you pay. Just take your damn drink.”

As much as Leonard appreciated their generosity, he never felt right about getting free drinks. He knew they needed the money a lot more than he did, so he always manages to sneak a five or a ten dollar bill in the tip jar when they aren’t looking. He was sure they knew, since it just so happened to occur every time he stopped in, but thankfully they chose not to say anything about it.

Grabbing his latte, he turned and headed over to his favorite spot by the fireplace. He plopped down into one of the huge chairs, watching as Jim to claimed the spot next to him. The two enjoyed their beverages in silence for a while, then pretended to chat excitedly about something when Professor Sulu walked in. He always claims that Enterprise is on his route to work, but everyone knows it’s quite a bit out of his way; he really comes in to see Chekov. Hikaru Sulu is a twenty-five year-old professor in the Department of Aeronautics and Astronautics at the University of New Altair. Pavel Chekov, only nineteen, has already completed three years worth of credits toward his degree in aerospace engineering. Chekov was a student of Sulu’s two semesters ago, and despite the riskiness of a professor and a student having any kind of personal relationship outside of class, they became inseparable. Any friend of Chekov is a friend of theirs, of course, and everyone at Enterprise took a liking to Sulu almost instantly. Jim and Leonard get a kick out of watching the two young men flirt so obviously, even though they claim to be “just friends.”

Or not.

It looked like they had finally gotten over their denial phase, seeing as Sulu abruptly leaned over the counter and gave Chekov a quick peck on the lips.

“ _AYYYYY!_ ” Jim yelled in obnoxious celebration, getting up on his feet and clapping in their direction. “Cat’s out of the bag!”  
  
 _“Sit down, Jim!”_   McCoy and Uhura yelled in unison.

Every patron in the shop turned around to stare. Chekov turned ten shades of red, and McCoy had his head in hands, as if he could pretend he didn’t know him. Uhura cleared her throat pointedly in the silence, and everyone quickly got back to what they were doing. Despite Uhura’s anger at the disruptance, Sulu was failing to suppress his giggles. Jim, of course, wasn’t trying at all. The two men, to all of their dismay, had horribly contagious laughs, and soon they were all laughing along.

“C’mon Bones, let’s go talk to them and see when the hell this happened.”

They made their way to the counter to greet Sulu, then Jim proceeded to grill the new couple with questions, most of which were extremely personal. Leonard simply offered his congratulations. The questions went on for about twenty minutes, then Jim was interrupted by a call from Gaila Navaar, which he stepped outside to take.

“Damn it!” He said when he returned. “Bones, I totally forgot I was supposed to meet up with Gaila for a couple hours today, she was gonna help me get ready for my topology exam. Is it cool if we meet back up later?”

In actuality, the older man was grateful to have a little bit of quiet time to read by the fireplace.

“Sure. Take your time. I’ll probably stay here for a while longer.”

“Great! Don’t think you’re getting out of grilled cheese and movie night just because we already went to a movie this morning! We’re doing early twenty-first century movies.”

For about a year, they’ve had a weekly tradition called Grilled Cheese and Movie Night where they, shockingly, make grilled cheese and watch movies. On a normal week, it’s the only time they have to spend with each other. Every week they watch a couple movies from a different era, but Jim definitely has strong preferences.

“Your fixation on that time period appalls me.”

“Oh, come on, Bones, 2000-2020? I know those movies are your favorites, too. At least the ones that weren’t pieces of racist, sexist, heteronormative, white-washed garbage. Which, granted, was most of them- but I love seeing the handful of films where they really _tried._  It’s amazing to look back at the people who used cinema to make statements on equality in the middle of all that oppression. Besides, people always become fixated on the century before their own. It’s the zeitgeist.”

Mccoy shook his head. “Okay, okay, y’don’t need to recite your final report from that Film in the Twenty-First Century class. I get it. I’ve already. heard it. _Three times._  I’ll see you tonight. My place this time, alright?”

“Deal,” Jim beamed. “See ya’ then.”

The younger man was halfway to the door before McCoy spoke up again.

“Oh, and kid?”  
  
“Yeah, Bones?” Jim inquired curiously, turning around to face him.

“If you ever use the word ‘Zeitgeist’ again, I will slap your pretentious ass into next week.”

His friend let out a surprised laugh and shook his head, and then they went their separate ways. Finally, he had the opportunity to read the new Zahra Jamal novel he had been anticipating for so long. He settled back into his favorite seat, and did not plan on moving for several hours.

 

* * *

 

_2.5 Hours Later_

“Doctor McCoy?” a familiar voice blurted out from nearby. He had been so engulfed in his book that he’d almost forgotten where he was entirely-- and, more notably, when it was. Whatever the time, it had been long enough to get through over half of the book.

When he looked up, his breath caught, and he was stopped short. It was his patient from almost a week ago, Spock Ishmael. He suddenly felt a strong wave of emotion. Partially, he felt sympathy, as he remembered how their appointment went over. The rest of him was gripped with that same attraction he felt toward the other man immediately.

“Spock! I mean, uh, Mister Ishmael- how are you doing? Feel free to join me.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said politely.

Leonard would not have thought in a million years that the other man would accept the offer, but to his surprise, Spock pulled up a chair across from him and sat down.

“To answer your question,” Spock started, “I am doing quite well. The treatment you prescribed to me was quite effective.”

It wasn’t a lie. He _looked_ a million times better. In fact, he was practically glowing. Gone were the dark circles under his eyes, and his previous pallor had been replaced with a lovely touch of golden tan (though the rain subsiding likely had a lot to do with that). He was even dressed nicer, groomed better, wearing a suit and a bright blue button down that fit much nicer than the frayed clothing he had worn to his appointment.

“Well I’m glad to hear it. What brings you to Enterprise?” the doctor asked with an involuntary smile. He wanted a change of subject, feeling uncomfortable discussing private patient matters in this setting. He was a bit curious, too, as to why Spock was in this hole-in-the-wall instead of one of the more popular coffee shops around.

“I spotted it on my way to work shortly after my arrival-- I live approximately one block away. I found myself strangely drawn to this place. Somehow, it is the only place in this city I feel almost… at home,” Spock admitted. His tone sounded like he was reciting his bank account number, not making an almost heartfelt statement.

“I know the feeling,” Leonard said softly, staring for a bit too long. He caught himself, then looked away quickly, awkwardly clearing his throat.

“Oh,” Spock said, gesturing to the book in McCoy’s lap, “I apologize if I interrupted you, Doctor. I can find another place to si-”

“No, no, it’s fine! You can stay. Tell me about how you’re, uh, liking the city. Done anything exciting yet?”

Leonard worried, briefly, that he sounded a bit too eager. Probably because he _was_ eager.

Spock eyed him with slight bewilderment, then settled back further into the chair.

“Truthfully, I have not taken much advantage of everything your city has to offer. I have spent most of my time at work, at my apartment, or here.”

Clearly not wanting to discuss it any further, it was now Spock’s turn to change the subject.

“What are you reading?” he inquired.

“Oh! Uh, this new Zahra Jamal novel, _The Deneva Operation._ ”

“Zahra Jamal?” Spock asked, one eyebrow raised with disapproval. “Hardly what I expected of you, Doctor. I find her writing to be predictable and forced. Tina Lawton is a much better author of modern science fiction, and she is only seventeen.”

“ _Tina Lawton?!_ " McCoy spat. “You’ve got to be kidding me! _Antares_ was the most dry, scatterbrained piece of work I’ve ever read! And not a single one of her characters was likeable. At least Jamal makes her readers, oh, I don’t know, _want to keep reading!_ ”

For a moment, Spock looked like he wanted to laugh, expressionless face somehow full of amusement.

“Doctor McCoy-”

“I’m not at work. Call me Leonard.”

“... Alright then. _Leonard_ , I find your reaction to be highly unwarranted. I did, after all, only state an opinion; albeit a correct one.”

“Albeit a _stupid_ one,” McCoy petulantly muttered under his breath. “Listen, Spock- can I call you Spock?”

“If you wish.”

“Alright, good. Spock. I don’t wanna be rude, but I think I’m gonna revoke my previous offer and tell you to sit somewhere else now.”

The other man merely furrowed his brows with a tilt of the head.

“... I was joking. That was a joke. God, do they not have _jokes_  in Morocco?” he asked incredulously.

“There are plenty of jokes. The only difference is that, in Morocco, they are usually goodones.”

Against his will, Leonard began to laugh, shaking his head slowly.

" _Damn._  I think I preferred you when that snark of yours was subdued by a fever,” he teased.

“And I you,” Spock smirked, “when you were obligated to put on at least _somewhat_ of a facade of professionalism.

The two went on like this for at least an hour, maybe two, talking and arguing and teasing. Leonard found that they agreed on next to nothing, yet talking to Spock made him feel happier than he’s felt in ages, nearly _elated._ There was something exciting about the way the strange man played off of him, never backing down, always providing him with something new to argue against. Usually, his strong argumentative side annoyed others. His love for intellectual debate remained mostly dormant, as nobody wanted to engage it. But Spock, no matter how detached he seemed, enjoyed it just as much as he did. As it grew later, their conversation calmed a bit, and they began offering up little bits of information about themselves-- nothing too revealing, nothing personal, but nothing boring, either. He now knew that Spock has a PhD in physics, that he moved here with his father, and that his gorgeous skin is a result of being Irish-Italian. He also knows that he is a vegan, and he has both a gluten allergy and an aversion to small dogs.

He also knew, in the back of his mind, that this was not a common occurrence for him. Not only does he not socialize with his patients outside of work, he doesn’t socialize with _anyone_ outside of the handful of friends and coworkershe keeps close. And he most certainly does not welcome impromptu coffee-shop conversations; being interrupted while reading usually warrants execution in the eyes of Leonard McCoy. Yet he just couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stop feeling like he was sinking with every word Spock uttered, unable to remain blissfully un-enraptured, unchained. It had been so long since he had felt anything like this, so long since he had lost Jocelyn, and now it was all happening so suddenly. He sincerely wished he didn’t want this so deeply, but he knew that he did. Despite his grumpy exterior, he had always been a bit of a sap, and always been the one to fall too soon, based on too little. He had always considered himself to be pansexual, though he knew little of romance outside of Joc. He had never really had a relationship with a man. Perhaps it was time to move on. Perhaps he had had been ready to do so for a long time.

Or perhaps he was being stupid, and was simply infatuated. They had, after all, only met twice. Maybe Spock was just a fascinating person from a far away place. Maybe he shouldn’t let this get out of hand.

Spock was in the middle of explaining why the recent discovery of a real wormhole in the Andromeda galaxy was going to be a turning point in time when Chekov walked up to the pair of them in the empty shop.

“I am sorry, Leonard, but we closed ten minutes ago. If you do not leave, I may have to remove you by force,” they boy said, hands on his hips with a serious expression, yet still managing to be as aggravatingly adorable as always.

“Sorry! Sorry, we’ll head out. Thanks, Russian Whiz-Kid. G’night.”

Spock and McCoy walked outside together, stopping on the steps and lingering awkwardly for a moment.

“Well, uh. I’ve gotta get home, I have a friend coming over for a movie night. But this was, uh, this was… interesting. Fun. Really enjoyable. Maybe I’ll see ya’ around?” Leonard asked nervously.

“Yes,” Spock answered quietly, his face a bit softer than usual. “Yes, I would like that. Perhaps I will see you here again soon?”

“Great, yeah! I’m usually here on Saturday evenings, if I have the chance. And, well, I _did_ give you my number last week,” McCoy smiled, taking his chances on the flirtatious remark.

“Indeed you did. I may make use of it yet,” the foreign man smiled in reply. “Goodnight, Leonard.”

“Goodnight, Spock.”

They walked off in opposite directions, and Leonard hailed a hovercab. And if he smiled all the way home? Well, nobody had any proof of that.

 

* * *

_10:23 pm, Risa Apartment Complex_

“James Tiberius Kirk, this is the most delicious grilled cheese you have made to date.  I’m beginning to think you’ve got some kind of cheesy magic up your sleeve,” McCoy theorized, leaning against the couch on his living room floor as _Life of Pi_ was playing on holovid.

“I can’t believe it took the brilliant Leonard Horatio McCoy that long to figure it out! Really, if this had gone even a week longer, I would’ve just told you about my magical cheese powers,” Kirk grinned.

The two continued to watch as Pi Patel cried out to the heavens in the middle of the ocean, and Jim was not making much of an attempt at holding back tears. But of course, the man has the attention span of a third grader, and he began talking animatedly two minutes later.

“Hey! The founder of V.U.L.C.A.N. is making a speech tomorrow at the Tarellia Center, 7:00pm. You should go with me, maybe you’ll actually see some of the good they’re doing.”

“Yeah, right,” McCoy huffed impatiently. “Who is that piece of work again? Sarbek Inglasias?”  
  
“Close,” Jim laughed. “His name is Sarek Ishmael. He’s from Morocco.”

And suddenly, the room went cold. He could feel the blood rushing away from his face.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He should have know. He should have fucking realized that something would screw this up. He shouldn’t have gotten so attached, so quickly. How could he see Spock in the same light now, knowing that he worked for such a cold movement? Knowing that he was the _son of the founder_ , that he had been raised on that kind of emotional detachment?

“Whoa, Bones- hey- _Bones!_  You okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Jim fretted, hovering over him with worry.

“Uh, yeah, yeah sorry. I’m fine, I just… just remembered something I forgot to do at work.” he lied unconvincingly, stealing Spock’s own excuse from last week.

“Bullshit, man. Tell me what’s up.”

He knew Jim was going to tell him he’s being a total idiot. But he had to tell him.

_Shit._

Here goes nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta, so feel free to point out any errors for me to edit!


End file.
